


i'll hold with those who favor fire

by queenofglass



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-04
Updated: 2011-11-04
Packaged: 2017-10-25 16:34:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofglass/pseuds/queenofglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some say the world will end in fire; Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll hold with those who favor fire

_Secret._

It’s a word she learned as a child, when sparks first escaped her fingertips, wilting the daisies in her hands.

It’s a word that guards the others— _magic, witchcraft, power_ —and keeps her quiet. For the longest time, she was alone.

Jane knew she was special, but there’s nothing worse than being that way in the company of the mediocre. For years, she itched to use the thing bottled up inside, the hidden, nameless thing that made objects burn, break, or vanish.

She didn't find anyone with powers like hers until college.

There were no signs or whispers that drew her to them, just a feeling; a feeling of togetherness, of home, not beginning and not ending. It was a perfect circle, made of people just like her, yearning to use gifts they had suppressed out of fear.

Their numbers vary, but there’s always six, when they are at their smallest.

Jane never remembers their names. She’s seen the ones with nothing more than parlor tricks, only sparks and a prayer. She’s seen practitioners with more magic than she cares to imagine. Mostly, she joins this circle to hone her skills. She doesn’t feel alone when she’s a part of the coven.

Outside of witchcraft, Jane lives a normal life. She excelled in math and science, and jumped at the chance for a scholarship. Medical school will be difficult and expensive, but she thrills at the challenge. Helping people who can’t help themselves seems to balance the darker side of her, one that uses magic because she _can_.

There’s a new boy at the meeting tonight. She watches him, seeing how comfortable he looks with his magic. He lets it roll across his shoulders like a great weight being lifted, beckoning it with practiced fingers.

He favors ice. Jane watches it crystalize the roses by the window, sending a frost over the panes. She can see her own breath as the temperature in the room begins to drop.

Her fingers twitch. The ice around the flowers melts; the glass fogs. Red sparks fly out of her fingers, burning the table. The others around her fan their collars, unused to the sudden humidity.

She likes fire. It’s unstoppable and dangerous, especially when yielded with a certain intent.

Jane flicks her wrist as this boy, testing his strength. He chuckles as the fire dances down his spine, not burning, but ghosting along the surface of his skin. One subtle movement of his wrist and it disappears with nothing more than a hiss.

Irritated, she calls for more, watching it swirl around his auburn hair. Fire meets fire, but before it burns, he extinguishes it a second time, smiling.

“Jane, Rob, why don’t you pair off?”

She glares at the woman (what is her name? Starlina? Willow? Something New-Agey and annoying) and stomps over to the boy.

“You could fight back, you know,” she mutters. “Putting out the fire isn’t all that exciting.”

“If I play with fire, I’ll get burned,” he winks, and forgetting her anger, she smiles back.

“Afraid to lose?”

“Never.”

They walk in a slow circle, testing each other’s limits. Rob receives an angry burn on his forearm for ducking at the wrong moment; Jeyne’s shoulder becomes icy and numb, like a marble statue. The others stop what they’re doing and watch.

There’s a symmetry in the way they move. Hot and cold, ice and fire, dancing, twisting, _dodging_. There’s no manual for magic; everything is instinctual and rules don’t apply.

Jane laughs through chattering teeth, slashing her wrist through the air. Rob’s shirt is torn from top to bottom, smoking gently, but he too is laughing.

Their circles are tighter now, their magic less offensive. In one moment, their fingers touch and they gasp.

 _“They’ve killed your brothers. The ironborn, they’ve taken Winterfell—”_

 _“I bestow upon you the crown of the North. You will rule as my queen, stand by my side, and command when I cannot.”_

 _“I have the great honor to present to you the Lady Jeyne Westerling, Lord Gawen’s elder daughter, and my . . . ah . . . my lady wife.”_

 _“They’ve killed the king, his bannermen, taken the Lord Edmure prisoner—”_

She wrenches her hand away as if scorched and flees the room. She doesn’t want to cry but she is, she’s crying because she’s not Jane West but Jeyne Westerling, she’s not alone, she’s with him. He’s not Rob, he’s Robb Stark, King in the North and murdered because of her.

“Jeyne—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” she snaps, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand. “This isn’t real, we’re not in W-Westeros anymore.”

“Why?” Robb presses, capturing her elbow. “Why did that happen? What happened after I died?”

“I . . . ” Jeyne pauses. It’s a strange sensation, feeling her time on Earth and her time in Westeros merge into one thread of consciousness. “I got my revenge.”

Robb absorbs the words and smiles darkly, pulling her into the shadows. The campus is silent and still.

He lets go of her elbow and presses both palms to the wall. She feels her heart begin to race. “How?”

Jeyne trails her finger down to his belt. “Let’s go to your room.”

. . .

She has forgotten how blue his eyes are, how strong he is.

But she’s strong, too. Robb closes his eyes as she climbs on top of him, his hands gripping her waist.

Her own eyes roll back when their hips meet; it’s apparent that she’s forgotten more than just what he looks like. Before, they were sixteen and unsure; now, they are twenty-one and free of Westerosi obligations.

“How?” Robb asks again.

“I slit my mother’s throat.”

His nails dig into her hipbones as she slides into his lap. “And then?”

Jeyne bites his shoulder. “I threw Cersei Lannister to the lions.”

“Did you,” he breathes, but she cuts him off with a kiss.

“Yes,” she purrs, conjuring a flame so she can see his eyes. “I hung Walder Frey from one of his towers.”

Robb smirks, and blows out the fire. She comes and the flame relights itself. He follows with a low growl, sinking his teeth into the side of her neck.

. . .

“How did you die?” he murmurs against the nape of her neck. “Do you remember?”

Jeyne tenses. “Did your maester at Winterfell ever tell you about the Doom?”

“The Doom still rules in Valyria,” he repeats the old saying.

“That’s what they called the second Targaryen conquest,” she explains, turning to face him. “Daenerys Targaryen rode her dragons to Westeros and took back the Iron Throne.

“I died near White Harbor. She flew those beasts and burned everyone in her path,” Jeyne spits out. “I was going north to find the Boltons.”

“And now you’re granted elemental fire,” Robb says, gazing up at the flame she’s kept burning over their heads. “Ironic.”

“I wanted to be worthy of the North,” she mumbles. “The Freys betrayed you, everyone did. Your wolf wasn’t even allowed to rest in peace, they cut off his head and crowned it on your body.”

For a moment, he looks in enraged; the fire above their heads burns blue and white-hot. “I hope we never meet a Frey in this life, I’ll kill them.”

“We _both_ will,” she corrects, curling a lock of his hair around her finger. “Winter is coming.”

He smiles at that. It’s a moment before he speaks again. “In Westeros, we went to bed three times a day.”

Jeyne turns sly. “Well, we best get on with it.”

The room goes dark.


End file.
